Reader of the Week: Hamish

Some time during the interwar period, from what I can gather, yet another estate was squandered by one of those overindulged heirs—we’ve all known a few. The sod’s fine-boned daughter would become Hamish’s grandmother, and instill in the young boy a sense that within his very blood, was the character and fortitude which had first cleared the farm, whored through Indochina, then built the mill, whored across Africa, then bought the ships, whored Eastern Europe, etcetera etcetera. Thus young Hamish was not to make playmates with any of the other little boys or girls in that frightfully unfitting, indeed insalubrious neighbourhood, in which they found themselves unwillingly slumming (Vaucluse in Sydney), and instead make friends with dignified characters, the ones he might find in books (Les Enfants Terribles, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Justine). The bookish child was only to wear button up clothes. His Teddy bears were to have names sourced from Greek tragedy. So thoroughly were the ways of aristocracy instilled in the child, that as an adult, Hamish can today walk into any gathering of currently financial aristocrats, and make them feel poor, pick them for tying the wrong tie knot for the occasion, drop all the most obscure and completely right names, and denigrate everything that must be poo pooed—that is, if one is to remain signed in to the contract of class. I should note somewhere too, that like all men of letters, he is dirty minded in the extreme. When the Liberal party needs a real leader, or when The Queen starts choosing her own Governor Generals, or when Ayn Rand’s books are all burned and we need someone to re-write them from memory, The Hon Hamish will have his day in the sun. Until then, you can be sure he will be dressed accordingly for the occasion, and be riding just the right bike for it too. His quiver includes a noble starter bike from Cell Bikes, the Raleigh (pictured) purchased from yours-truly now I don’t need it, plus by-proxy possession of a nice ladies chopper, bought for bike polo. Any of a dozen Austrian counts could keel over, at which point another cheque from yet another atomized inheritance, will give him the money for that Pashley Guv’nor he cries out for when making love. We are truly behooved by your patronage of this little bike blog, your right honourable Hamish.